


However Improbable

by ZygomaticBliss



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Friends to Lovers, It'll be a while before anything happens, Just 'cause, M/M, More tags later, Parallel Universes, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, casefic, not even joking, post series 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZygomaticBliss/pseuds/ZygomaticBliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has just jumped from the roof of St. Bart's and watched his best friend - his ONLY friend, as he would claim - give a very nearly teary speech at his grave. Now he's off to find the remnants of Moriarty's web and bring them burning to the ground. Sounds like fun, right?<br/>...<br/>Sherlock has just acquired two roosters - for reasons not unknown to Watson, he prefers to call them cocks (hint: it's to be annoying) - and rid himself of Lestrade. Life is good for Sherlock, until Moriarty escapes from prison once again. Now he's been sent on a chase to find the missing criminal mastermind. Sounds like fun, right?<br/>Just imagine what would happen if both Sherlocks just happened to encounter each other on their respective crusades? What would happen if Moriarty's past is not all that it seems? This is the story of how that happens.<br/>Sounds like fun, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Send-off

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, one and all, men and women, both and neither, to my first ever fic!  
> I actually owe the inspiration for this one goes to my Sherlock Buddy Christian, who thought up the premise. I'm sprinkling my own little head canons and personality to the plot as I go, and I will do my best to portray the characters as in-character as possible.  
> I plan to post about once a week, God willing, but don't count on it. This will be a fairly lengthy series, and I only have the meanest of ideas about where I want to take it.  
> Please, please, PLEASE, leave kudos, comments, and feel free to bookmark me. The better your response, the sooner my updates!  
> On with the show!

_“Goodbye, John.”_

_“No, don’t…”_

_“Sherlock!”_

“Sherlock.” The consulting detective focused back on Mycroft, eyes narrowing. Another memory had risen without his permission and taken over again. He needed to regain control of his own mind. When would he stop feeling guilty about his fall? He had saved John, not broken him. Yes, he did cause him undeniable grief and sorrow - he heard how his doctor talked at his grave, and it didn’t take a consulting detective to see the pain in his partner’s face and hear the anguish in his voice - but it was to save his life. He would come back eventually and fix John, just like he had fixed him before. If he could get his head together and _focus_ , that was.

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” Mycroft asked, mirroring his brother’s intense gaze.

“Nope,” Sherlock said, emphasizing the “p” sound. To be honest, he should be grateful for the flashback. It served as a none-too-gentle reminder that time was of the essence, just what he needed as motivation to face and out-banter his brother. “Not that I am not particularly sorry for it. If you would cut the pointless drivel and skip to the part where you point me in the right direction, perhaps I could finish this before I reach senility.”

“In a rush, brother mine?” Mycroft asked innocently, and, despite himself, Sherlock bristled at the obvious implications.

“You know as well as I that it is in everyone’s best interests to disassemble Moriarty’s empire as quickly as possible,” he replied smoothly.

“Except you’re not interested in ‘everybody’, are you, brother mine?” Mycroft said. “You want to come home to the good doctor, have a good laugh over Moriarty’s stupidity, and start solving London’s various crimes again.”

“So what if I do?” Sherlock demanded. “Believe it or not, Mycroft, I led a perfectly suitable and fulfilling life before my faked suicide last week. I had my work, a comfortable place to live, and a friend. Even you agreed that John made me … better. Why are you so determined to find fault now?”

“Because everything will be different now,” the government agent said simply, standing and walking in front of his desk to sit on its edge. Sherlock fought the urge to snarl at the obvious condescension in the pose. “John will feel betrayed no matter how you pull this off or how long it is before your return. After all, it was your decision not to tell him about your true status.” Sherlock balked at the reminder.

“I can’t have him following me out there, Mycroft, and you know he would,” he shot back. “And I can’t have him targeted for his knowledge back here in London where I cannot save him and you cannot watch without giving me away.”

“Perhaps,” the older man conceded whilst sounding as if he was not conceding at all. “But perhaps you are merely delaying the inevitable. You are not a fool, Sherlock. You know as well as I that John will be livid when he discovers your deception. Besides, when dealing with John and other matters of the heart, you can be very childish.” Mycroft rose a hand to deflect his brother’s outrage. “I only mean that you do not want to know what John would decide after being angry with you. You would rather believe that you have a loyal best friend awaiting you than a man who has decided he would rather live without you.”

“I stand by my decision, Mycroft. It is my choice, and no one else’s.”

“Yes. It is.” he stood again and walked to the door. “That was mere brotherly advice.”

“Strange, I only heard mindless quibbling.”

“Regardless. You will find the first link to Moriarty’s empire at a privately funded lab in Switzerland. You will find a car outside wishing to take a man by the name of Jeremy Patterson to the airport, where he is due to catch a commercial flight there. Files containing all pertinent information about both Jeremy Patterson and the lab you will need to invade will be located in a simple black briefcase in the back seat of the car. I will cease all surveillance and contact with you once you exit this door.”

“Finally.”

“Do not joke, brother,” Mycroft warned. “I cannot provide any sort of assistance during your mission. If any of my men find you in areas under my control, they will shoot to kill. You are advised not to kill anyone except out of self-defense, or else my people may find reason to pursue you. I also recommend you avoid all of your previous … recreational activities. As tempting as they might be in your newfound freedom, they will be nothing if not detrimental to your cause.”

“Are you quite done?” Sherlock interrupted, exasperated. “I know all of this already. And you know how I hate repetition.”

“So be it,” Mycroft said, offering a hand. “Godspeed, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, don’t get sentimental now, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered. “You don’t believe in God.” With that, he brushed past his brother’s extended hand without pause and out of the door.

Mycroft sighed, letting his eyes close for a moment - he hadn’t slept all week since his brother’s fall, and unlike Sherlock, he did occasionally need to sleep - and dropped his hand to his side. “For your sake,” he murmured. “I will hope there is one. With that, Mycroft snapped back to business and sat back behind his desk. Anthea stepped into the room, eyes glued to her Blackberry as usual.

“Do you have orders, sir?” she asked.

“Cease all surveillance on Sherlock Holmes, and drop Dr. John Watson to sub-beta levels,” Mycroft ordered deftly. “However, keep him under all anti-terrorism and anti-assassination protocols until further notice. He might be a target yet.”

“Very good, sir,” Anthea said.

She made to leave, but a sudden text alert stopped her. “Sir? We’ve lost Priority Demeter. Wiggums says the trail’s gone cold.”

“Fire him,” Mycroft said tiredly. “And get someone else who doesn’t get high while tracing down a master assassin to do the job. We must find her.”

“We will, sir.” Mycroft pulled out the file that held the rogue assassin’s information. He was both frustrated and impressed by the slimness of the file. They didn’t even know her full name or what she looked like. All they had were her initials and the barest ideas of who she’d assassinated before.

Of the three assassins Moriarty had hired, of course the one assigned to kill John Watson (if Sherlock lived) got away.

Bloody AGRA.


	2. Beginnings and Blondes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins his hunt, and two unlikely characters reunite at his destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to posting this all week! It's been a shit week, so I'm glad I got to end it well. Please make it even better by leaving kudos, reviews, and love. They feed my heart and help me keep going through to a new week.  
> Much love, and enjoy the story!

The airplane is small, cramped, and smelly, but Sherlock supposed he had to get used to mediocre services again, especially since mediocre was the best a person got when on the lam. Still, it was a struggle not to roll back his lip in disgust when the pilot and one of the stewardesses boarded the plane practically  reeking of earlier activities. No one else would be able to smell it, but no one else was him. He turned his attention back to the files in his hands. He would have to burn them nearly as soon as he left the airport in Switzerland, but for now, since Mycroft was foresightful enough to book Sherlock the whole row, he had the time and space to review the file and store all relevant information in his Mind Palace for later.

The airplane is small, cramped, and smelly, but Sherlock supposed he had to get used to mediocre services again, especially since mediocre was the best a person got when on the lam. Still, it was a struggle not to roll back his lip in disgust when the pilot and one of the stewardesses boarded the plane practically  reeking of earlier activities. No one else would be able to smell it, but no one else was him. He turned his attention back to the files in his hands. He would have to burn them nearly as soon as he left the airport in Switzerland, but for now, since Mycroft was foresightful enough to book Sherlock the whole row, he had the time and space to review the file and store all relevant information in his Mind Palace for later.

Sherlock sighed. It was like Moriarty wasn’t even trying anymore. True, he was dead, but that was no excuse for being so obvious. William Jacob Grimmig, an obvious reference to Wilhelm and Jacob Grimm. Grimmig even translated to “grim” from German to English. So Moriarty was funding Martinssen’s research on the multi-verse, the long and short of it Mycroft summed up in his files.

Basically, Martinssen believed that multiple universes existed (hence the name), and although some were precisely similar except for a few oddities and mismatches - favorite colors, for instance, or birth dates - others were as dissimilar as black and white. And everything in between. It seemed that Martinssen was trying to prove his theory - apparently widely held by scientists and science fiction fans alike - as well as discover a path between the different multi-verses.

The most curious thing about his file is that he indicated that he was close to discovering such a path. And Moriarty obviously seemed to believe him.

Sherlock was confused, which is not something he was very comfortable admitting to himself. This was obviously Moriarty’s work, but to what end would he need a pathway between worlds? Perhaps after he beat Sherlock, he wanted to find another genius to tear down? Perhaps he wanted to find the next big challenge in another universe? Or perhaps did he want an escape route not even Sherlock could follow him through? In any case, Mycroft believed it was a first step, so Sherlock would investigate, even as resentful of his brother as he was.

As the plane touched down in Geneva, Sherlock thought back to John and wondered how he was holding up. Suddenly he was transported back to the rooftop, ears still ringing from Moriarty’s suicide, John nearly begging him not to jump. Not using words of course, but then, he and John never needed words to communicate.

Was it only two years ago that he did not know Dr. John Watson? Their friendship would indicate otherwise, after all. And Sherlock would do anything, would go to any lengths to ensure that he stayed intact long enough for them to pick up where they left off: in a perfect friendship in the most perfect city on Earth. Nodding decisively, he filed away all thoughts of John for the inevitable lulls in his crusade. Such sentiments were of no use at any other time.

Sherlock walked quickly through the town, missing his Belstaff and the weight of his familiar curls already. Both were too distinctive, so he’d had to cut his hair short and worse,  dye it , as well as leave the Belstaff with Mycroft. He’d promised to take good care of it. Sherlock assumed that meant he was using it as a welcome mat.

In any case, he already missed London. Perhaps it was simply the part of town or the day, but it was far too sunny and the people were far too polite. John could probably even find a cab here, and wasn’t  that a definite indicator of how un-London-like this place was. Sherlock hated it, hated the whole lot of them. Why couldn’t the bloody city be more  interesting?

Still, he had a job to do. For a moment, he considered hailing a cab, but he decided that to do so would be to squander what limited funds he had, and he knew he would need them for other pursuits. He would have to steal a car. Although, “have to” were probably not the most accurate words to use. “Was wildly excited” or “could scarcely believe he had another opportunity” to steal a car were probably more accurate terms. He’d only had to hotwire two vehicles in his career as a consulting detective, Lestrade’s police cruiser and a double decker bus he was convinced was holding a secret store of poached weasels (it was, and wasn’t he glad John wasn’t there for  that particular case - it was quite embarrassing to be defeated by a pack of weasels). It took him some strolling to find a car with enough gas in a safe location for hijacking, but by the end of the hour, he found a Prius (imported by an American energy tycoon on vacation, as well as his rather substantial harem of mistresses) and was on his way to find Martinssen.

As he navigated his way through the beautiful, rolling hills, he cleared his mind of all thoughts besides the half percent of his brain required for safe driving. He wasn’t often able to do so, and he didn’t often want to, but the thoughts invading his Palace - his fall, John’s pleas, John’s barely restrained speech at his grave site, the weeks and months ahead without John, the game he no longer wanted to play - were, for once, worse than the frightening blankness of absent-mindedness.

 

* * *

The woman was blonde, beautiful, and the deadliest person Switzerland had seen in a very, very long time. Even as she stepped through the portal, hair whipping across her face and clothes straining in every direction to put itself apart, she was poised and elegant, just as controlled as she always was (excluding the time her ex and his insipid partner had fooled her; but then, that was less a loss of control and more of a miscalculation of her own power - completely different). A slight smirk pulled at the edges of her perfectly painted mouth, and a delicately arched eyebrow rose slightly at the sight of her company as she exited another world.

The other woman was also blonde, beautiful, and, prior to the first woman’s entrance, had been the deadliest person Switzerland had seen in a very, very long time. She didn’t look very beautiful as her sister walked into sight, what with her red-rimmed eyes, shaking hands, and unwashed appearance. She looked distraught, distracted, and disheveled, as one might after falling in love with one’s target and watching her brother-in-law shoot himself through the throat, then racing across the continent to reunite with her deadly, long-absent, but still beloved sister to tell her the bad news. Since the moment she arrived in the lab, she had not spoken a single word, not even to the other person occupying the building.

This person was not blonde, beautiful, or even remotely deadly. Instead, he was a balding, pudgy, extremely near-sighted coward with an obsessive personality and a tendency towards panic attacks, the frequency of which have only increased since his unwitting entanglement with the women and their cousin. His name was Philippe von Martinssen, and he was already wishing he had gotten into any other field, one in which he was not threatened and manipulated and scared witless every other opportunity.

“How good it is to be home!” the first woman declared with a wide smile and a wink at Martinssen, who whimpered. “How are you, darlings? And where is Jim?”

“He’s … dead,” the second woman said waveringly. “He and Sherlock Holmes were playing another one of their little runarounds, and it ended up with Jim ordering two assassins and me to kill his three closest friends if he didn’t commit suicide.” She paced the away from the other two, running her fingers through her short blonde hair as she collected herself. “He met Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart’s - you know, the hospital? - and they talked for a bit. I saw them shake hands, but the next thing I saw was Jim putting the gun in his mouth, and …” She cut off with a muffled sob.

“And Sherlock?” the first woman inquired.

“He jumped off the roof while John Watson and I watched,” the second replied, her voice empty.

“Ah, so he’s dead,” the first woman smiled, the merest hint of feral joy tinting the edges. “Well, at least there’s no chance of me falling in love with him.”

“Is that all you have to say?” the second woman demanded, whirling on her. “This isn’t some joke, Jamie! Your husband  died ! Why aren’t you upset?”

“Why are you?” Jamie asked quietly. “Jim always knew he would pay a price to finally battle and defeat a proper opponent. What better price than his life? He was willing, and, if I had a guess, happy to pay that price, sister mine. And now we live in a world without Sherlock Holmes, the only man remotely clever enough to defeat us. Don’t you see? We could  rule . We could bring England to its  knees .”

“To what end?” the other woman shouted, making Martinssen flinch. Neither women noticed. “To what end would we rule? Until Mycroft or John or some lucky bastard does us in? I’m not like you or Jim. I can live without this, and you know what? I think I might want to.” Jamie’s eyes widened, the only sign of her total surprise.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jamie demanded. “I can’t do this without you. You’re the best assassin there ever was!”

“You can do whatever you want, okay?” the other woman said tiredly. “You’re even more brilliant than Jim was. I just don’t want to be there when you die too. I don’t think I could handle that.”

“But that’s not it, is it?” Jamie snarled. “You wouldn’t let one little loss defeat you, yes? You especially wouldn’t quit out of sisterly affection, would you, dearest? What else is it?”

“I fell in love, okay?” the other woman cried spinning back to face her sister. “I fell in love with John Watson. I was supposed to kill him, which meant I had to follow him all over London and back for weeks, and when I watched Sherlock fall, I saw his heart break, and mine broke too. That was when I decided I didn’t want to be a gun for hire anymore. Not if I could be there for him. Not if I could heal some of the hurt I helped create.”

“And just how will you  be there for him? How will you  heal his hurts , sister dar?” Jamie sneered. “Caring isn’t in your nature, sister, and neither is healing. You are a killer. You are an assassin from a family of the same. Do you think that kind of chaos will heal your lovely Watson?”

“It did before,” the other woman replied quietly. Jamie almost started to reply again, but, after a considering glance, cut herself off.

“You really love him?” she asked, gentler.

“I do.”

“Well, heaven knows I can’t fault you for it, not after my defeat from my Sherlock,” she laughed slightly before fixing her sister with a hard stare. “You won’t be able to contact me again or anyone else from this world. You will have to find a new name, and new past. You will need to be a new person.”

“You know what?” Mary Morstan replied, smiling. “I think I already am.”

“Then all I can say is farewell, sister,” Jamie Moriarty said. “And keep John Watson out of my way, will you? I have a country to conquer.”

“I’ll do all I can,” Mary promised, hugging her sister one last time before turning her back on her old life, soul lighter than it had been before, mind busy plotting out her seduction and consequent healing of John Watson. As she drove toward Geneva, she imagined her future alongside her new love: calm, sedate, civilian life with just enough of her and her edges to keep John coming back for more. She would have her Watson, she’d make sure of it.

Meanwhile, Moriarty was having extravagant sex with Martinssen. She deemed the act an act of both celebration and courtesy. Celebration because Sherlock Holmes was dead here (no chance of falling in love, not like before), and she was free of her husband (who was a fool for thinking she wouldn’t notice his various male lovers), courtesy because once Martinssen had his fill, she would kill him and burn his body to rid the scene of all evidence of herself. Judging on the poor man’s panting, she could probably be out of there before the day was over.

She smiled to herself, plans and ambitions racing through her head like blissful promises, unaware that the very man who could stop her was only four minutes away.


	3. A Change of Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan reflects on her time with her partner, and Sherlock takes a swim in the Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apparently, Sherlock gave Remus and Romulus away to a petting zoo soon after he tamed them. I forgot that before starting, so oh well. I guess I don't comply with canon as much as I thought. *shrugs*  
> Anyway, next chapter's going to be a little early, since I won't have an Internet connection a week from today. Expect it Thursday, if not late on Wednesday. After that, I'll be going back to my regular schedule.  
> Anyway, comments, kudos, bookmarks, and other expressions of love are ALWAYS welcome, so don't be stingy and don't be shy.  
> Enjoy!

Five years ago, Joan Watson would’ve never believed that she would have not one, but two roosters for alarm clocks. Hell, one year ago, she wouldn’t have believed it. However, a year ago, she definitely would’ve been able to believe that she could grow to enjoy it. The Watson of five years ago would have laughed at the idea. Then again, the Watson of one year ago was just fully accustomed to Sherlock’s strange and varied methods of waking her, even coming to enjoy them - if she’d had a good night’s rest, of course. And the Watson of five years ago… Well, she was a few months away from meeting the world’s first (and no longer only, she added silently with a smirk) consulting detective.

Joan smiled at the memory of her first encounter of her eccentric partner, even as she threw a handful of cornmeal from the bag at her bedside to Remus to keep him from crowing again and waking the whole block. As she stripped and pulled on her running clothes, she rolled the thought of their approaching anniversary around in her mind. They had never celebrated before, since the first anniversary of their meeting fell fairly close to the beginning of their official partnership, and they were too preoccupied with adjusting and training even to remember to eat on some days. She had remembered the second, third, and fourth anniversaries, but she wasn’t the kind to celebrate every year, and neither was Sherlock, if he even remembered at all. But in only three months, they will have known each other for five years…

She rolled the number around in her head as she pulled her hair back in a simple ponytail and checked for flyaways. Five years of living with, working with, and growing stronger with her mad-hatter client-turned-partner. Five years of fights and compromises and apologies. Five years of memories, victories, and defeats shared and cherished. Five years of learning each other’s boundaries, secrets, and fears. Five years of having each other’s backs, even when the other is wrong. Five years of slowly but surely built friendship, respect, and trust in the other. Joan pulled on her running shoes, grabbed a handful of feed for Romulus, and ventured downstairs, both wary and curious of her partner’s activities that morning.

The silence of the brownstone - broken only by the soft clucks of the feeding Romulus, who accepted his hand full of cornmeal with gusto - could only mean a couple things, and Joan sighed silently when the hand-written sign (never the same one, since Sherlock wanted Joan to deduce how long he would be unavailable from the “microexpressions” of his handwriting, as they were, a challenge Joan refused to take without fail), declaring her officially Sexiled. Of course, Sherlock never said that she had to leave when he had a “guest” over, but Joan hated to stay while they were there. Not jealousy in the slightest - she was most emphatically not interested in Sherlock in that way - but she did get awfully tired of the one-night stands who thought she was. She never could decide which was worse: the cloying, pitying look of oh-you-poor-darling-I-didn’t-mean-to-rub-how-good-a-lover-he-is-in-your-face, or the smug, self-satisfied sneers practically screaming how pathetic she was in comparison.

 

All the same, years of getting good manners practically beaten into her by her no-nonsense parents had her reaching for the coffee maker and preparing a fresh pot, despite her reluctance to drink it when she and Sherlock were not on a case. She set a small stack of to-go cups next to the pot and scribbled a quick “Help yourself!” on a post-it note, which she stuck to the pot.

And then she got the Hell out of Dodge.

A few minutes later, stretching at the beginning of her run along the Hudson River, Joan thought again back to the anniversary and the possibility of celebration. Since Joan would likely be the one to plan everything anyway, she decided she would surprise Sherlock with the celebration. Nothing big, and preferably not in a bar, she decided. Just a small gathering of friends - Bell, Gregson, maybe even Alfredo, Randy, and Miss Hudson, if they could be persuaded - at a nice restaurant. She’d get him a thoughtful but inexpensive gift, laugh it off when he reminds her that he could not have possibly have gotten her a gift having only just remembered, and just generally have a good time. She would have to find a restaurant that did not require reservations, since God only knew whether or not they would be dealing with a case then, but she was sure she could pull it off. The main challenge would be keeping the whole deal secret from Sherlock, but that was one challenge she would always be game for.

With a spring in her step and a goal in mind, Joan set out on her jog along the river, just in time to see the figure of a man appear out of thin air, hover for a second, then fall straight into the river. For a moment, she just stared at the spot where the man disappeared, unable to process what she just saw, before a body bobbed to the surface, obviously unconscious.

“Oh, my God,” Joan gasped, changing direction to run to the river. Pausing for only a moment to pull off her shoes and stash them and her cell phone and keys under a nearby bush, she jumped into the river to save the mysterious man.

* * *

By the time Sherlock arrived at the lab, he was thoroughly and spectacularly bored. At least on the train ride to Dartmoor and the subsequent drive to Baskerville, he had John to entertain him and to entertain in return. Deductions of the more humorous variety were shared (and, occasionally, completely made up, not that John ever noticed) in undertones on the train and in between fits of giggles, along with discussions debating the pros and cons of different guns, imitations and memories of Henry Knight and other, more infamous clients (usually the ones so scandalous or blatantly laughable, John never put on the blog), and, when John was asleep, a renewed count of his visible gray hairs and calculations between the blonde and the gray. It was boring and mundane and ordinary, but it was a memory of his time with John that Sherlock cherished most. Only John could find a way to turn boring and mundane and ordinary into happy.

And if he wanted that particular brand of happiness again - and Lord, did he ever - he would have to first get the the bottom of the Martinssen case.

As he approached the lab - the car abandoned about a mile away in the woods - he focused on deducing all he could. It had rained the night before, leaving the ground nice and soft for footprints, which gave Sherlock clues so obvious even Anderson could read them and some only he could. A woman distracted by some sort of grief entered the building an hour ago and left relieved and excited only a few minutes ago. (The heels of her pumps dragged as she entered, and the footsteps were slower, judging by the depth of the imprint, and the heels hardly touched the ground and the steps were shorter when she left. Obvious.) Martinssen’s car (men’s clothes, scientific notes, and men’s deodorant scattered across the backseat why were people so obvious?) was parked outside and had been since before the rain. Martinssen himself had spent the night at the lab, not even taking a break to go outside. No one else was there.

Perfect.

No other witnesses meant that Sherlock had full creative liberty here to spy and search for information as he pleased. Martinssen doubtlessly rarely left the lab, but that only gave Sherlock time to watch him work and attempt to deduce the connections. Even if he couldn’t deduce, the time spying (there were air ducts wide enough to fit him and John, for God’s sake) would help him figure out a strategy to coerce him into giving himself away.

Sherlock made his way with both optimism and caution (no reason to leave footprints and tip Martinssen off) to the roof. About a meter away, a gunshot rang out in the still forest air. Without a moment’s hesitation, he dashed through the door of the lab. He couldn’t be recognized anyway, and he’d be damned if he let a murderer get away when he was so close.

Within only a few seconds, he found both Martinssen and the woman who shot him. Martinssen was on the floor, naked, sweaty, reeking of sex, and very much dead with a bullet hole straight through the right side of his head - the same side as his dominant hand, Sherlock realized. This was to look like a suicide. The woman was equally naked but for the latex gloves she used to hold the gun. She was obviously the woman Martinssen had just concluded sex with, although she looked much less debauched than Martinssen.

“Most people tend to run away from a gunshot,” she said in English with a perfect, precise British accent. “Who are you that does not?”

“A friend,” he said, feigning a Swiss accent “of Philippe.”

“Yet you do not appear very concerned for your friend.”

“Not particularly friendly.”

“Not particularly Swiss,” she countered with a sunny smile. “Yet you do have an impeccable accent. Were I anyone but me, you would have gotten away with that accent. Yet again I ask: Who are you?”

“Who are you to have shot Martinssen?” he asked in return in his true accent.

“Jamie Moriarty,” she returned with a smile. When his eyes widened imperceptibly, the grin only grew. “I see you have heard of my husband. Perhaps you have heard of his success as well over that fool Sherlock Holmes?”

“I was under the impression that Jim Moriarty was simply a character Richard Brook was payed to play, as if an acting role, and Sherlock Holmes committed suicide when his deceit was discovered,” Sherlock replied, careful of his tells and this new Moriarty’s eyes. When he had finished, her eyes lit up with delight and she laughed with it lightly. She turned her back to him to go fetch her clothes in the corner, placing the gun on the counter beside her. Sherlock was torn between diving for it and listening to this woman. In the end, the calculations confirming his distance was too great to retrieve it were all that kept him rooted to the spot.

“My husband did have a success today!” she exclaimed. “Even if he is dead, he should be truly proud of all he accomplished.” She stopped pulling on her blouse and considered Sherlock for a long moment before continuing on. “I’m sure the other Holmes sent you here to reap his revenge on my husband’s network. Jim never was too good about concealing his more ambitious operations.” Fully clothed again, Jamie picked up the gun but, instead of levelling it at him, kept it loosely at her side. She knew she had his interest. “You’re wondering what his interest in this place and this man was.”

“The question did cross my mind.”

“About five years ago, a similar project in a different universe drew me over there by accident. Although I could communicate with Jim and my sister - an assassin, you know - it took massive amounts of money, time, and subterfuge. It was only recently they discovered Martinssen and formed a plan to bring me back.” With the gun, Jamie indicated a corner of the room, one padded with rubber and foam and surrounded by lots of scientific equipment Sherlock assumed was vital to the now late Martinssen’s work. Sherlock took the gesture as an instruction and inched his way over, frantically searching for a way out. His immediate area was bare of furniture, and he couldn’t move fast enough to dodge the bullet. The woman was obviously familiar with the weapon and he no trouble shooting him. Before he could find a game plan, he was in the center of the pad, and the woman gestured for him to stop. “In that time, I founded a criminal empire, nurtured it to maturity, and watched as time after time, Sherlock Holmes thwarted my plans to contact my home.”

“You stole whatever you needed to make it happen,” Sherlock supplied. “He would be an idiot if he just let you get away with it.” Jamie shrugged.

“Breaking the known laws of physics isn’t for the pure at heart, my dear,” she replied. “Anyway, Sherlock Holmes was turning into a serious pain in my rear, so I decided to make a study of him, see what it was about him that made him so challenging an opponent. So I seduced him and began to date him as an artist named Irene Adler, and I looked to see what I could find.” Sherlock fought off the surge of surprise, annoyance (this other Sherlock Holmes sounded like a true amateur), and amusement. This would be the second naked Irene Adler he’d met. How trivial.

“And what did you find?” he asked dryly, trying to stall for time.

“I found a man," she sighed. “Just an ordinary man, if a particularly well-crafted one, one with a somewhat sharper mind than most. However, I found myself infatuated with him, which obviously would not do for my plans, so I faked my death to drive him to what I believed to be a suicidal ending. Instead, he dived headfirst into an addiction that took him out of Britain and my sphere of influence.”

“You got what you wanted.”

“For two years, yes, I did,” Jamie continued, beginning to type into the keyboard at her side one-handed. “I intentionally blinded myself to the country Sherlock relocated to, which meant I had no idea he was in the United States until he had already caught onto my trail, this time sober and bent with revenge, complete with a partner who seemed to only strengthen his powers of deduction. From what I hear, there’s a Watson in this universe too, only half as effective as a partner.”

Sherlock saw red briefly at the insult to John, but calmed himself enough to say, “The information I’ve received tells me that Dr. Watson was instrumental to Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yet not instrumental enough to keep from leaping off the side of St. Bart’s,” she countered, keying in one last line of code before turning her full feline attention back to Sherlock, “and running off to go take down the rest of my husband’s empire without him.”

“Excuse me?”

“I will have enough trouble capturing the support of my husband’s empire without worrying about another Sherlock Holmes,” Jamie Moriarty said. “Don’t worry about your Watson, dear. I have a vested interest in keeping him alive.”

“What -?”

“Enjoy New York!” she called, her accent suddenly and convincingly American as she pressed a button, and in a flash of blinding lights and whirling winds, he was far in the air over a river (the Hudson River, if the skyline and her parting shout was to be believed). He had enough time to take in a jogging woman who was probably just unobservant enough to miss him and to brace himself for the impact before the water crashed over him, his collarbone cracked and probably broke, and his normally 20-20 vision faded to black.

 


	4. Collision Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Joan's Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! New chapter! And it's early! Hooray! I will be gone at Disney World on Sunday without Internet access or the slightest desire to write or post anything anyway. So here's your chapter. Enjoy it. Savor it. You won't get any more until next week. I know it's short, but consider it a result of mounting tensions before the big event, which should be next week, if all goes well.  
> I'm turning 18 and catching a bus to Disney World tomorrow, so my happiness will already be peaked, but you can still grant me a birthday wish of comments, kudos, and subscribers. I love you all, and enjoy the story.

Sherlock opened his eyes, smiling as the face of Marissa swam into focus. The sounds of something frying, the coffee pot brewing, and his cocks distantly clucking registered gradually. Good sex always made him sluggish the morning after (part of why he was so active between cases; a few minutes of sluggishness were a few minutes he didn’t have to worry about boredom), and Marissa was the best he’d had in ages. He decided with some pleasant surprise that she was the first sober brunette he’d enjoyed vanilla sex with since before he met Irene Adler. He wondered if it had anything to do with her fluent and frequent Chinese profanity during the act - using words even he did not know, much to his delight - and decided to experiment more with foreign women in future exploits. Perhaps he had a kink he was not previously aware of.

“Good morning, m’lady,” he greeted her, pressing a soft kiss to her neck.

“If you learned anything about me last night,” she giggled, tilting her head to give him more room, “you should know that I am no lady.”

“Mmm, no,” Sherlock agreed, reaching up to nibble around her earlobe. “You are a goddess, even if you are wearing too many clothes.” He reached for her blouse to fix the problem, but she swatted his hand away lightly.

“I just came to say goodbye. I can’t be late for my plane, and I already called a car,” she apologized. He accepted this with a nod and sat up to begin dressing. “Thank your partner for the coffee on my behalf, will you? I made you a fresh pot and some eggs as my thank you to you.”

“Believe me, my dear, the pleasure was all mine,” Sherlock purred, gratified when Marissa blushed.

“Oh, and a Detective Bell called while you were asleep,” she remembered, pulling out a pad of sticky notes (wedding planners are rarely without them, Sherlock had learned). “He said your partner found a man floating in the Hudson River and would like to meet you at the hospital when you can.” Sherlock grinned internally. Perhaps Joan’s running habit was useful after all - though God knew he would never tell her so.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, buttoning up the last button on his shirt. “I’ll eat the eggs you made me and be on my way. Before you leave, though, take this.” He pulled a business card from his bedside table and handed it to her. “Should you find yourself in want of another night with me or in need of a detective, please don’t hesitate to call.” It wasn’t something he always offered, but Marissa was certainly memorable enough.

“I just might,” Marissa replied with a small smile. “And should you find yourself in San Diego or in need of a wedding planner - either for an actual wedding or just a professional opinion - call me yourself.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, bending down to kiss her farewell just as the doorbell rang with her cab. “Take care, Marissa Roberts.”

“Take care, Sherlock Holmes.”

Half an hour later, Sherlock stepped out of his own cab, closed out of the window about river currents and the Hudson, and strode into the hospital to meet Watson and the police. Without pausing to look around, Sherlock veered to the right side of the lobby to meet with Bell (he always flirted with the fairly attractive nurse who worked on that side of the hospital). “Well?” he asked, bounding up to him. “Where’s our mystery swimmer?”

“No swimmer,” Bell greeted him with a nod. “We’re not sure why, but your partner said he fell out of the sky into the river.”

“How far did he fall?” Sherlock asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Watson estimated about twenty or thirty feet, and her estimates are usually on point,” Bell said, pulling out the statement he’d taken. “He’s broken a fair number of bones, and the docs have put him on morphine to combat the pain. Chances are that he would have drowned if Watson hadn’t dived in after him. As it is, he’s alive and in good condition.”

“And just who is this mysterious falling man?”

“To be honest, we haven’t the slightest,” Bell replied a bit sheepishly. “No one has filed a disappearance of anyone fitting his description, and he isn’t in any of our files. No one on file matches his appearance, DNA, or fingerprints, but we expect that should all fall into line when he wakes up. If you want to go up and take a crack at him, he’s in room 202. That’s where your partner is now.” Sherlock nodded his thanks and made his way upstairs to meet her.

What he found there was quite the mob. Six different nurses were crying, screaming, or hurling abuse and profanities through a door at the end of the hall, and Joan stood in front of it, arms blocking the entrance, back stiff with anger and annoyance. When she caught sight of him, she sent him a slightly panicked look, and he smiled and pulled out his whistle. A few loud, prolonged shrieks of the whistle later, all of the nurses were holding their ears and staring at him with complete hatred.

“You all have jobs to be doing, I think,” he reminded them, “not related to harassing a patient, no matter how much he may deserve it. It would be in all of your best interests to leave him to my partner and me. Off you go.”

Grumbling and growling, the assembled nurses slowly dispersed back to their given posts. Sherlock, bemused for once, approached Watson. “Do you mind informing me of what happened here? I seem to be entirely confused.”

“That bastard in there has less manners than you,” Watson said with calm venom (the kind that usually told Sherlock he’d gone too far and would be making and ordering his own meals for the next week or so). “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he deduced us, each of us.”

“And exposed your worst secrets in the cruelest way possible,” Sherlock concluded, and she nodded, eyeing him curiously. He noticed and shrugged. “When I was younger, I believed airing and forgiving another’s grievances would inspire them to do the same with me. Unfortunately, that was usually the response I got. So I used them as a defense mechanism, to an even worse effect."

“Good thing I didn’t know you then,” Watson muttered and Sherlock smiled.

“Undoubtedly. He upset you,” he added, and she rotated her shoulders, as if trying to knock the irritation off her.

“A little,” she admitted. “Brought up stuff from the past I wasn’t crazy about thinking about, and warped a couple of things from the present to try to sound insulting. If he hadn’t pressed on all of the nurses’ dirty little secrets before setting into me, he might not have gotten to me as much, but as is… You didn’t happen to teach anyone else how to deduce, did you?”

“Not with as much intent as you,” Sherlock said after half a second’s thought. “If others picked up my methods on the job, that would be one thing, but I can hardly imagine how any of the police I worked with could have learned enough without my notice. Why do you ask?”

“He’s British,” she replied bluntly. “British, used to hospital stays - if not particularly fond of them - comes from a wealthy, powerful background, and, if my years as a sober companion don’t fail me, previously addicted to some harder drugs. If I had a guess, I would say heroin or some other opiate. You and he could have run in the same circles, shared some of your techniques.” Sherlock considered for a moment, then nodded.

“Well done, Watson,” he said. “If there would be anyone who picked up my techniques, it would have been one of my associates associated with the habit. I will be able to recognize him if we were acquainted even briefly. I kept rather small circles of ‘friends’ among the addicted.” He beamed at her proudly, trying to hide the worry in his gut. He wasn’t sure he could take another Rhys at the moment, but for Watson’s sake, he would sure as Hell try.


	5. Morphine Off On the Wrong Foot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan and UK Sherlock meet with less than satisfactory consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter! The Easter bunny presented me with a chapter this year, so I'm passing it along!  
> I know it's been a long wait, and not a lot has happened so far, but we're almost done with the awkward exposition-y bits. I'm also taking requests for misadventures for the two Sherlocks to get into while in New York. I have ideas, but filler fluffs would be very helpful. Leave suggestions in the comments as long as you don't get uber-offended if I don't get around to using your idea.  
> Even if you don't have a suggestion, comments are beloved, kudos are brilliant, and subscriptions are beyond appreciated.  
> (Warning: not beta'd or Britpricked. Sorry.)

Sherlock opened his eyes and scowled when the bare, cream walls of his hospital room greeted him. He _despised_ hospitals. With the possible and pending exception of St. Bart’s morgue, hospitals were without fail a veritable cess pool of idiocy, useless academia, and crippling, droning boredom. A hospital trip meant trying and failing to tolerate the moronic doctors and nurses, pointless policies and restrictions, and a mandatory session of boredom usually termed “healing time” or “recuperation”. The worst part when he was in the hospital bed, however, was definitely the lectures. Lectures from Mrs. Hudson, from Lestrade, from Molly on the odd occasion (usually tempered by her awkwardness and obvious infatuation with him, but her stutter and bluster has been greatly reduced over the past few months or so), from his parents, from _Mycroft_ \- the insufferable fat man - and, worst of all, from John.

Of course, none of those were as bad as when _John_ was in the hospital. Then, the only person lecturing Sherlock was _Sherlock_ , and he knew all of the right buttons to push.

Rolling his eyes at his own sentiment, Sherlock glanced around the room. It was a standard American room for unidentified individuals - three homeless men, four women, and two children, plus two schizophrenics and one amnesiac in the past ten days - most likely in New York or Chicago, judging by the crowding of the patients. He remembered the Hudson River and hazarded New York. Three nurses had come by to check on him since he’d been settled - one wearing Claire de la Lune (one of the more pleasantly subtle kinds that also did an admirable if unintended job of hiding undesirable scents - well-liked among nurses to hide the smell of their patients and among politicians to hide their various corruptions), one with a date with his abusive girlfriend that night and a father with cancer, and one so in denial about his own homosexuality (likely because of America’s brazen and frankly idiotic streak of homophobia) that he was engaging in unfulfilling and likely unsafe sex with as many of the female nurses as possible - so he decided he had been out for approximately three to six hours. He concluded his sweep by looking over the equipment attached to him, freezing when he saw the small machine attached to his IV.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” the abused boyfriend nurse greeted him, walking in and taking his chart. “You’ve broken a few major bones, so we’ve given you some morphine to keep you from too much pain right off the bat. Pump’s there in your hand, if you need it.” Suddenly, Sherlock felt the morphine kick through his system like a whole racetrack of horses made of ice, fire, and silence. He didn’t even remember squeezing the pump. Instantly, he felt the drug run through his system, and even as he slowed down, he felt his rage kick up. He grabbed hold of it, hoping for a way to stay afloat, and started deducing furiously. Before he knew it, the man was red in the face, bright in the eyes, and startling in the speed with which he left the room.

“Track runner,” Sherlock murmured, angrily pulling at the IV attaching the morphine to his body. “There’s always something.”

He did not have the time or the resources to stage his own intervention and wean off of the morphine. If he cut himself off right then, the withdrawal might be slight enough to cut out unnecessary healing time. He cursed quietly when the other two nurses rushed in to stop him. Not pausing in his motions to look up at them, he rattled off his deductions about them, pleased when both ran from the room in anger (Nurse Claire de la Lune didn’t just need the perfume to disguise the scents of the hospital) and angered when three more took their places. He could feel the effects of the morphine already, but he still managed to reduce the cavalry to tears before his mind gave in to it.

He sighed in relief when no one immediately came in to stop him. Unplugging the machine and removing the tube from his IV, he lay back on his bed. Perhaps it was the morphine, but he wasn’t quite sure what his next move was. His hospital room was on the fourth floor, far too high for him to slip out the window or down enough hallways unobserved, especially with his injuries (broken collarbone, right ulna, and left fibula, mild concussion, some water inhalation, and sprained left wrist). Based on the behavior of pre-John nurses whom he’d managed to anger, they should be forming a small mob by this time to tear him down a size. He would really rather not have been there when that happened.

Considering his admittedly few options, Sherlock noticed a woman standing in the doorway, silently observing him. He sensed nothing threatening about her, but he refused to take chances. She unnerved him for some reason.

“Come to exact revenge for those insipid nurses of mine?” he asked nonchalantly, interest piqued when she did little more than blink at his sub-zero tones. He skipped his gaze over her, impressed with how well she hid the signs of her own past. Nothing was hidden where he couldn’t find it, but it was clear most idiots would never see what she didn’t intentionally show.

“Former co-workers of yours, Doctor?” he asked, but before the woman’s eyes could even widen, he plowed forward. “Except you aren’t a doctor, are you? No, you failed so catastrophically they stripped you of your title, didn’t they? From what I hear, you have to damn near kill someone to have that happen.” She squirmed, just a flash of unease and small shift backwards, but he latched onto both with delight and just enough mock pity to draw blood. “Oh, you did, didn’t you? My God, how do they even let you into hospitals anymore? Aren’t they afraid you’ll accidentally kill another patient, or did they sic you on me so they won’t have to pretend to heal me? After all, with you at the table, who would sue the hospital?”

 

Another spark of shame and hurt shone brightly for a moment before rage, a blazing inferno, replaced it. Sherlock stared with surprise at the complete change in body language without the slightest shift. “No,” she said, and the one word nearly singed his brow. “If they had sicced me on you, I wouldn’t have to kill you anyway. I’d just have to plug the drug addict back into his meds.” Her eyes flicked to the morphine machine and glittered with harsh humor when his own widened. “But I’m not going to do that. Maybe it’s the Hippocratic Oath talking, or living and working with a reformed drug addict, but I’ll just let you deal with your lovely little withdrawal yourself and make sure the nurses don’t bother you.” With an evil little grin, she stepped just outside, playing the perfect guard dog. None of the guards would be able to get in without going by her. And Sherlock wouldn’t be able to go out.

_Damn_ , he thought, staring at the back of her head. All that fire and steel hiding behind a fairly ordinary, innocuous face? Fury so complete it frightened even him (but only slightly), but still controlled enough she could make rational and even (arguably) compassionate choices? She was even intelligent enough to pin him as a drug addict, something not even John could do at first. Then she went and left him off the morphine, even though she was far angry enough to plug him back in.

It was what John would have done. That was why she unnerved him, he thought, watching the mob of nurses approach his door and try to push past her, watching her stand up to them.

She was just like John.

He spent a few minutes using the comparison to distract his increasingly fevered, sluggish mind from the morphine before he heard a distant shout. The noise died down, and then the mob dispersed. He wondered at it for a moment before realizing that the John-like woman was gone from his doorway. He had a chance to escape!

Groaning at the roaring in his head and the growing pain in his - well, everywhere, Sherlock sat up in the bed just in time for the woman to re-enter the room with a stubbly, eccentrically dressed man. _Git looks like his mother still dresses him_ , the voice of John echoed through his decaying Mind Palace, and he vehemently bit back a giggle.

“Oh, no,” the woman said, rushing to push him none-too-gently back into bed. “You are _not_ leaving that bed, not for a long while yet.”

“No one’s ever complimented you on your bedside manner, have they?” he murmured, and the strange man-child stiffened. “So is this the reformed drug addict?”

“Consulting detective,” the man said stoutly, and Sherlock wasn’t sure whether he was more surprised by the British accent or the words he spoke. “Sherlock Holmes, to be precise. I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop harassing my partner Miss Watson. We are only trying to help.”

_Consulting detective … Sherlock Holmes … partner … Watson_ … Sherlock’s morphine-addled brain apparently decided a nightmare should be accompanied by sleep, so he had just enough time to mutter, “I highly doubt that,” before the world went dark.


	6. An Introduction for the Ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan and Sherlock confront Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this is hard work. Please excuse any goof-ups or grammar-type problems. I'm not exactly at my best this week. Also, no beta, no Britpricker of any kind, so...bear with me. At the end of the story, I am planning to go back through and make one final round of revisions.  
> Anyway, with graduation and final college decisions (I'm probably gonna have to say no to my first choice because they want close to $20K) and my last three exams ahead of me, I offer you Chapter 6! As always, kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks, and comments make the stress and effort bearable, but just an extra person reading makes my week, so sit back and enjoy!

“ _Aargh_!” Sherlock was awake and digging the needle out of his inner thigh before he even knew he’d woken up. He sat bolt upright, glaring blearily at the man standing over him, a smug little smile on his face.

“I did tell you, Watson,” he said. “Lots of nerve endings there.” Sherlock glared at him even as his various pains shot through his system. His whole body felt painful, as if molten lead were pumping through his veins instead of blood. He lay back against the bed, biting his tongue when the motion aggravated the pain and sent a spike through his skull.

“And I told you that I believed you, with or without the demonstration,” she sighed, walking around him to check the puncture wound. Her voice spoke of annoyance, but her eyes were fond. _Just like John_ , Sherlock thought hazily, but he shook off the thought. This woman was not John, no matter how many similarities there were between the two. “Luckily it doesn’t seem to be bleeding much. How’re you feeling?”

“Like I just had a needle shoved into my thigh,” Sherlock grumbled. “Was there any particular reason why your partner decided on that course of action.”

“He gets impatient,” she said, placing a small bandage over the puncture hole. “We couldn’t question you while you were unconscious, so we needed to wake you up.”

“That and I don’t particularly care for those who insult my partner,” the man said, and the other Watson’s eyes sparked for a moment before softening. Sherlock caught her eye and raised a brow (even though it hurt like hell), and she glared at him. “So let’s get this over with, shall we? Who are you, and how did you come to land in the Hudson River during my partner’s morning run?”

“That doesn’t really concern you, does it?” Sherlock sniped.

“Well, considering the fact that I’m the one who saw you appear and fall out of the sky and jumped in after to pull you out, I’d say it concerns me,” the woman retorted. “You wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for me.”

_And yet another parallel_ , Sherlock thought. “Would he be?” he asked, pointing at the other Sherlock. “Would he be here today if it weren’t for you?”

“Yes!”

“No.” The other woman whipped around to face her partner. He shrugged. “One of our first cases, remember? The secretary who tried to make me dig my own grave? You got Gregson to come after us after the woman sent you a text outside my normal texting vernacular, yes? I would have died then had you not sent the police to find me.”

“You’d picked the locks on your handcuffs by that -”

“Regardless,” the other Sherlock interrupted. “Why are you so interested, hmmm? I don’t recognize you from London at all, yet you somehow know the art of deduction. Perhaps you could start by explaining that.”

“An art?” Sherlock spat before thinking. “Deduction is not an _art_ like painting or playing the bloody violin. Deduction is a _science_.”

“You play the violin?” the other Sherlock asked. Sherlock hesitated - and damn it, other Sherlock saw it - and nodded. “I do, too… But you’re not surprised by that, are you?” he added. “Who are you and how do you know so much about me?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Sherlock scoffed. Other Sherlock and Other Watson glanced at each other, skeptical.

“We’ve faced a woman who grew ears on their back and cut them off to frame her husband, a man who pushed another woman into train tracks in order to kill his wife without anybody believing she was dead, a kidnapped kid who raped his kidnapper, a conspiracy theorist who’d been killed because one of his conspiracies was the truth, an evil woman who seduced a man, faked her own death, and ran an empire built on death, blackmail, and subterfuge, and we have bested them all. _Try us_ ,” Other Watson listed, clearly off the top of her head. At the mention of the last one, her partner shifted slightly, obviously uncomfortable.

“That last one,” Sherlock said, putting the pieces together. “The woman, and the man she seduced, was it you?” he asked. “Were you the one who fell in love with her?”

“We were talking about you -”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just answer the bloody question!”

The man was silent for a long moment, staring him down, before, “Yes.”

“And did she call herself,” Sherlock asked, leaning forward, “ _Irene Adler_?”

The man rocked back on his heels, and the woman just looked at him. “How did you know Moriarty called herself Irene Adler?”

“You say you’ve taken on the craziest that there are, yes? You’re Sherlock Holmes and his Watson, of course you take on nothing less than the most interesting, anything that will keep you from being bored for more than two seconds, right? Because there is no poison worse than boredom to you, am I right, Mr. Holmes? To you and to me, boredom is worse than morphine, worse than heroin, worse than any opiate you could stuff through our veins. You ask how I know deduction, know you play violin, know of Irene Adler, and this is because _she is the one that sent me here_. I am Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first and only consulting detective, and I was sent here by your Moriarty, the wife and widow of my nemesis Jim Moriarty, from a parallel universe in which many things are similar but not quite the same.” With that, Sherlock sat back and stared at his counterpart in this universe, who had obviously been robbed of all speech.

Other Watson, however, had not. “You’re crazy,” she whispered, standing abruptly.

“No,” Other Sherlock murmured. “He isn’t. He is just as sane as I, which apparently may not be very sane at all.” For the first time since Sherlock laid eyes on him, he walked fully to his bedside. “He really is another version of me.”

Other Watson blinked. “I meant when he referred to me as ‘your Watson’,” she lied, which both Sherlocks saw through in an instant.

“Who knows?” Other Sherlock said. “This version of me seems to be quite a sight more attractive than I. Perhaps he and your alternate universe counterpart are in a romantic relationship of some sort or another. Frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me.” Other Watson seemed to choke, and Sherlock snorted, both at her expression and at the thought. “What?”

“No relationship,” he corrected. “I am as always married to my work, and, as I have heard altogether too often, John is ‘not gay’.” He put air quotes around the end and glanced at Other Watson. “That excuse wouldn’t pan out too well for you, I’d think.” Now Other Watson really began to choke.

“ _John_?” she practically screeched. “John. Your version of me is a guy?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock responded. “ _Current_ Dr. John Hamish Watson, ex-Army doctor, invalidated out of Afghanistan by a bullet through the shoulder while attempting to save another’s life. Back in London, in an attempt to find affordable living in the city, he met me through a mutual acquaintance, and moved in with me the next day at Baker Street and shot a cabbie to save my life that night.”

“Where is he?” Other Sherlock asked.

“Back in London,” Sherlock said shortly.

“Looking for you, you think?” Other Watson asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Sherlock, tell the truth, please.” Sherlock glared at her and then down at his sheets.

“He thinks I’m dead.”

“Why?” Other Sherlock asked.

“Is answering that question really necessary to your feeble investigation, Mr. Holmes?”

“No,” Other Sherlock answered, leaning back. “Although telling us why and how our version of Moriarty managed to pull you over to this dimension would, however.” Scowling and with only the minimum amount of breathing time possible, Sherlock told them of the scene at Martinssen’s lab and Jamie Moriarty’s desire to remove another Sherlock from the situation.

“Although this may prove advantageous, since I am on a quest of sorts to demolish any and all remains of my Moriarty’s empire,” he concluded. “If this other Moriarty was here, than the web has almost certainly extended over here.”

“Why aren’t you on a quest to assure John that you’re alive?” Other Watson asked.

“Is that relevant?” Sherlock snapped.

“It is to me,” she snapped back. “I’d like to know why anyone would leave their partner and friend thinking them dead in favor of a few dredged-up remains of revenge.” Once again, Other Sherlock shifted, but Sherlock ignored him.

“It would only put him in danger. No one can know I’m alive until no one from Moriarty’s empire is left to avenge their master,” Sherlock replied. Something snapped together in Other Sherlock’s eyes, but again, Sherlock ignored him. “Once he is safe, I will return and make things right. First, though, I need out of this bloody hospital.”

“Not yet,” Other Sherlock said. “You’ll only aggravate your injuries, which will only slow you down in the long run. Watson - that is, Joan - and I can get a head start on Moriarty while you heal. We’ll bring everything to you we get, or we’ll send one of our colleagues to. Once you are out of the hospital, we can continue to help you as needed until you leave to go back to your own universe.”

Sherlock glared up at him, before finally saying, “I’ll need a laptop. If I’m to be locked up in this hell for any period of time, I won’t do so bored.”


	7. Getting to Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan and her Sherlock start working on the case and trying to figure out the new Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeew. Well, this one's done. Next week's chapter will either be a day early or a day late, since Mother's Day is kind of a whole-day celebration for my family. I can only hope for a day early, but a day late's a lot more likely. I graduate from high school on Thursday, so I've kind of got my plate full. Family's coming in, rehearsals will be attended, and parties will be thrown all over the place. In short, life's a little crowded this week.  
> Anyway, a reminder that I do not have a beta, I do not have a Britpricker, and I have very little patience for proofreading. After I post the last chapter, I will go back and make a final series of edits, probably not plot-related, but who knows.  
> As always, kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks, and comments make this girl insanely happy, but just a higher hit count puts a smile on my face, so sit back and enjoy!

“You really believe him?” Joan asked, walking out of the hospital. “This all seems a bit much.”

“As you said before, our cases have run the gamut of unlikely circumstances,” Sherlock said. “This other Sherlock truly believed he was my extra-dimensional doppelganger, and he had enough of the same deductional skills and interpersonal incapabilities as me. He was an addict, and whatever he said about being ‘married to his work’ was a mere ruse, I expect distracting and protecting him from his own homosexuality.”

“I thought homosexual marriages were legal over there?” Joan stepped ahead of Sherlock to hail a cab so he didn’t have a chance to use his whistle. “Why would he need to protect himself from his own sexuality?”

“Same-sex marriages may be legal, but the mindset of the country is not as accepting of the changes as most had hoped,” he explained. “Besides, at the time this other Sherlock would have been raised, the conditions would have been much worse. If his childhood was even remotely like mine, likely he decided to close off his sexuality and focus on his studies to detract from attacks. Freaks and geeks were attacked far less frequently than poofs and fags, in my experience.”

“In your experience?”

“A rumor went around when I was fifteen, and people really need nothing more than a rumor to hate.” Finally, a cab noticed the two and Sherlock clambered in, Joan following. She put the tips of her fingers to his wrist in a silent but familiar extension of comfort and thanks for the offering before changing the subject.

“So where are we going?” she asked.

“To the Brownstone first, where you will pick up a laptop, three or four cold cases from the chest I offered you, and as much information about Irene Adler and Jamie Moriarty as we have at our disposal there, all which you will deliver to Sherlock in the hospital. I would also appreciate it if you talked to him some more. He underestimates you, so he will be far easier for you to deduce on your own than if he worries about me there.”

“What do I ask about?” Joan asked. “He told us nearly everything we need for the case.”

“Yet we know very little about the man himself, which I felt was intentional.” Sherlock sat back in the seat, fingers drumming as he thought. “Ask him about his Watson and Moriarty. Try to figure out why John believes him dead.”

“Should I take him the letters from the beehives?”

Sherlock went absolutely still, and an apology sprung to Joan’s lips, but he spoke before she could offer it. “Yes, I think so. He might be able to recognize some tells or details you or I would take for granted. I have to admit that letting this version of me read them is … embarrassing, to say the least, but keeping them from him would be the height of folly.”

“No folly,” Joan agreed as the cab pulled up. “What will you be doing?”

“As far as I can see, this other Sherlock’s story only has one flaw, that of our Moriarty. I have to see whether she has indeed escaped and how she did so. This will probably involve a fair bit of behavior you would not appreciate viewing or trying to replicate, so I shall go alone.” Joan rolled her eyes and got out of the car, but before she could close the door, Sherlock stopped her. “Clarity may necessitate me calling you Joan for the time being, but it might just be the strangest part of this case so far.”

Joan chuckled quietly. “Not even close, but I still doubt I’ll get used to it.”

Sherlock smiled as the door closed and watched to make sure she got into the Brownstone before giving the cabbie his new destination. He pulled out his phone to inform Gregson of the situation to the best of his abilities, wondering just how his fellow Sherlock was handling hospital life in a hangover.

* * *

Sherlock was practically vibrating out of his own skin by the time Joan returned a little under two hours later with the laptop, files, and letters. She rolled her eyes as she stood just outside the hospital room, watching him fiddle with the plastic cup a nurse had brought him. Now that she looked closer, he did resemble her Sherlock. Not so much in looks, but definitely in manner. Both strangely childlike but magnetic, enigmatic. This Sherlock was somehow less … _human_ than her own. He seemed more of a character out of a comic book. Hers had eccentricities, of course, but he was, at the end of the day, a man. This Sherlock seemed as though he wanted to be a god, or thought he already was.

“Would you like more water?” Joan asked, deciding to announce her presence. “I brought my laptop and a few papers you might enjoy.” Sherlock didn’t move, speak, or make any indication of having heard her, choosing to stare off into space and twirl the cup absently instead. “Sherlock? Can you hear me? Sherlock!”

He blinked slowly once then again more rapidly. “Did you get the water?” Joan blinked.

“What? So you want some?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock huffed indignantly. “Why else would I have asked for it?”

“You didn’t ask!”

“Yes, I did, half an hour ago,” Sherlock replied, and Joan nearly threw her hands in the air and gave up on the whole affair. Instead, she took a calming breath, placed the supplies on the side table carefully, and glared at the choleric man.

“Sherlock, I only arrived a few minutes ago,” she said.

“Not my fault,” he replied languidly. This time she really did throw her hands into the air before she snatched the cup from him and went to fetch him more water.

“Did you really talk to me when I wasn’t here to hear you?” she asked, handing him the cup.

“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled. He took a careful sip, aware of his weakened limbs. Joan started forward to help him, but his glare cut her off. “I have to admit, I’m surprised. John never voluntarily lends me his laptop. Usually I have to steal it from him and cut through his password. It never keeps me out for more than a minute or so, but he always keeps changing it.”

Not expecting or ready for the opening to talk about her male double so quickly, Joan blinked before formulating a good response. “If he’s anything like me, he changes it to humor you because if you’re anything like Sherlock, you like showing off your superiority to the rest of us mere mortals. That’s why I left the password on mine.” Joan noted his eyes lighting up before continuing. “Anyway, I would’ve lent you Sherlock’s, but he hid his somewhere, and I can never find something if he wants it hidden.” Not entirely true, but not a bold-faced lie, either. Perfect for feigning near-stupidity to a super genius. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I fell out of the sky into one of the world’s most polluted rivers,” Sherlock snarked. “With a pinch of feeling like my brain is ripping itself to pieces thanks to the morphine and the crippling boredom.”

“Yeah, I could tell you were going to get a headache when you passed out,” Joan said, checking his chart. “Assuming, of course, that it was the morphine that knocked you out instead of the shock.”

“Of course it was the shock!” he asserted indignantly, and she smiled indulgently at him but let it go.

“Anyway my laptop and this stuff should help with the boredom, at least for a little while,” she soothed, gesturing to the pile.

“What’s the rest?” Sherlock asked.

“All the information we had at home on our Moriarty and a few extra cold cases Sherlock couldn’t solve.” ( _“And I hadn’t gotten around to solving yet,”_ Joan added silently.) “We figured that would be enough to keep you entertained for a while. Sherlock’s gone to bully some prison wardens into figuring out the details behind Moriarty’s escape from her imprisonment.” Sherlock nodded and reached for the laptop.

“That should hold for a few hours, I suppose,” he said. Joan stood, trying to figure out an appropriate conversation starter, but Sherlock found one for her. “You’re curious about the other version of you. Only natural, I suppose.”

“You seemed fond of him,” she hazarded, and he shot her a sideways glance. “You hardly seem like you would be fond of just anyone. I’m just curious why John is special.”

“John is special because he is one of the only people in the world who can surprise me,” Sherlock said, as if reading from a list. Joan wondered if he actually was, if he had a whole list of why John was so important. The thought made her want to smile, but she stifled it. “I did not doubt when we met in St. Bart’s that he would move in with me, but I did not even consider that he would stay. He involved himself in my cases and began a blog about me, which garnered me more cases than I thought possible. He shoots men when they try to kill me and has proves handy as a doctor around when minor injuries occur. He has become essential to my work.”

_“And you’re married to your work.”_ Joan didn’t say it, but the thought struck her like lightning. Instead, she latched onto the one bit that surprised her. “You said he had a blog?”

“Quite a popular one, for some inane reason,” he huffed. “Is that what you are to this world’s Sherlock? His blogger?”

_Half-truths_ , Joan reminded herself. “I’m his apprentice. I’m studying to become a consulting detective as well, though for simplicity’s sake I just call myself one. Sherlock doesn’t really mind, so it makes it easier to describe to my family. Although I do have a bit of a casebook going, describing Sherlock and the cases we get into. You might like reading that once you get into my computer. It might give you a clearer picture about the two of us.”

“John doesn’t talk to his family,” Sherlock muttered. “He stopped talking to Harry on a regular basis after she walked out on her wife Clara, either for the divorce or for the drinking, I was never certain which, and his parents are rather pugnacious at best. I take from your facial expression that doesn’t particularly describe your family.”

“Not even remotely,” Joan said. “My parents are fairly ordinary people, if a little old-fashioned, and my brother Warren’s happily engaged. My birth father is living on the streets, what with his schizophrenia and the fact that he doesn’t particularly like taking his meds, but otherwise, I live in a near picture-perfect family.” Once again, Joan marvelled at her ability to talk about her birth father aloud. Since she opened up to Sherlock, she found it easier and easier to think about or bring up, if not with her mother, than on the phone with Warren.

She started to ask about Moriarty or his life with John when her phone went off. “Excuse me, that’ll be Sherlock now. I’ll leave you to my laptop and files.” Sherlock nodded briefly before devoting his full attention to the keyboard in front of him. She smiled and walked into the hallway to answer the call.

“Hey, how are the intimidation tactics treating you?” she greeted him.

“Quite well, Wa- Joan,” Sherlock replied, and she could swear she heard him bouncing on the balls of his feet. “The warden gave us a fair bit of information to work with. I shall inform you in full when I meet you at the station. How is my injured counterpart, and did you get information from him?”

“A little,” she said. “Letting him underestimate me meant that I had to let him steer the conversation, but one big thing did come out of it. I don’t think he just cared about John. I think he was in love with him, romantically.”

“Really?” Sherlock was silent for a moment, digesting. “I can only imagine what else you discovered. I shall meet you in the station in twenty minutes.”

“See you there,” she agreed and hung up. She poked her head back into the hospital room, where Sherlock was typing rapidly at her keyboard. “I see you got past my computer password,” she commented.

“Hardly Fort Knox,” he murmured.

“Well, I’m off to the police station to meet up with Sherlock and find out what he learned. One or both of us will be back soon,” she said, and he nodded. She stared at him a moment longer, hardly believing this madman was to be a part of their lives until he took down the remnants of Moriarty’s web. She turned and walked down the hallway, shaking her head at herself. _Because one Sherlock isn’t enough..._

 


End file.
